Thursday, August 3, 2017

Write
what you know, we authors are often told. This oft-cited advice may
not be useful for some genres, of course. How many of us have met a
vampire? Or a billionaire, for that matter? Even so, our real world
lives will necessarily have a significant influence on our stories.
We write about places we’ve been, jobs we’ve done, situations
we’ve observed. It’s not just that this is easier (though that
may sometimes be true). Our writing is likely to be more authentic
and realistic when it’s based on what we’ve actually experienced.

In
my novel The Gazillionaire andthe Virgin, Rachel is a physicist turned
businesswoman. Theo is a junior professor of computer science. The
story more or less requires that both main characters have PhDs.
There’s even a bit of technical stuff in the book, though I’ve
tried to keep it simple.

I
worry a bit that some readers might not identify with characters that
have such lofty academic credentials. Really, Rachel and Theo are
just like anyone else. They have desires, fears, and needs. They get
up and go to work in the morning. They brush their teeth. They make
love. Yes, they are both pretty brainy, but their intelligence
reveals itself in fairly subtle ways. They’re not Mr. Spock or
Doctor Who.

When
I start having these doubts (and all of us authors do have these
crises, when they’re sure nobody will like their books!), I
remind myself that romance is, at some level fantasy. The market
makes it clear that readers have no trouble imagining themselves in a
relationship with a billionaire. Hopefully the same will be true for
a hero with a lot of education.

Here’s
a bit from the book to whet your appetite.

~~~

Theo:

She’s
not what I expected. She’s soft and full, not lean and angular like
most Californians. None of the gym-toned muscles everyone sports here
in the land of sunshine. And she’s young, much younger than someone
so filthy rich has any right to be. Her designer watch must have cost
more than two months of my professor’s salary. On the other hand, I
can hardly complain about her wealth, can I, since my pet project is
the beneficiary of her largesse?

Hunkering
down in the leather-upholstered back seat of her disgustingly opulent
vehicle, I try to calm myself. I’m sweating like a pig, and my
muscles are in knots. I gulp down orange juice from the bar I’d
ridiculed and focus on my breathing the way Dr. Hopkins has taught
me. I force myself not to count the telephone poles whizzing
by. I know that will only make it worse.

When
I pat my pocket, I can’t help grinning a bit. Two hundred fifty
thousand! We can equip a new mobile development lab and hire two
trainers for a year. Or take our outreach into junior high schools.
Or even expand to some of the Rust Belt cities where the recession
has hit particularly hard...

No,
this wouldn’t be enough for that. But Dr. Zelinsky—Rachel—had
indicated there might be more.

Rachel.
Bringing up the search engine on my phone, I type in her name. I
should have done this before the meeting, of course, but I was much
too nervous. Up until the moment her limousine pulled up in front of
my building, I still thought I might back out.

The
screen fills with images and links. There’s even a Wikipedia
article. I flip through the text, digesting the basics. Born in
Brooklyn. An MBA from Harvard and a PhD—in physics!—from MIT.
Looking Glass is her third company. She sold the first to IBM and the
second to Microsoft.

A
real high roller. And MirrorWorld is a huge hit—the main article on
the virtual environment runs pages and pages. Since the Looking Glass
IPO almost two years ago, the company stock has increased in value by
an unbelievable 224%.

She
can afford a quarter of a million for charity. For her, that’s
petty change.

By
the time we arrive back at my complex, I’m pretty much back to
normal. At least what counts as normal for me. I nod at the uniformed
driver who opens the door for me, trying to pretend I do this every
day. The Vietnamese gardener is spreading new mulch on the flower
beds in front of my building. Averting my eyes and ignoring his
greeting—after all, I can barely understand his English— I hustle
up the wooden steps to my second floor condo.

It’s
quiet and cool inside. The soft hiss of the air conditioning soothes
me. I flip on the stereo, something by Brahms, turn the volume down
low, then stretch out on my bed, fully clothed.

I
made it.

The
money is mine, free and clear. I’ll ask my sister to deposit it
tomorrow. I don’t need to see Rachel Zelinsky again.

I
can’t stop thinking about her, though. I recall one of the pictures
from the web article, a black and white photo of a skinny teenager
with a mop of curls, standing in front of some science fair project.
She didn’t have those curves yet. No, but I recognize the
expression, that determined set of her mouth and those laser-sharp
eyes under the dark eyebrows. She was going to win—there was no
question.

Something
about her makes my stomach do somersaults and my mind turn to
oatmeal. I can’t concentrate. All the blood rushes to my cock....

Oh,
it’s like that.

Of
course it’s like that. Who wouldn’t want her? She’s clever and
articulate, self-confident and successful, a “modern visionary”
according to the Internet. Not to mention as lush and ripe as some
forties film star. No wonder I’m granite hard inside my boxers.